


Fellowship

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Dwarves, Fanfiction, M/M, SGA Secret Santa 2013, Sea Monsters, Swords & Sorcery, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team and friends play a fantasy VE game, but boundaries get blurred and as usual, things don't go quite as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fellowship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/gifts).



> Written as a gift for skitz_phenom in the 2013 SGA Secret Santa exchange. Huge thanks to my fabulous and long-suffering beta Busaikko for last minute editing and spotting various obvious flaws. This is a fusion of SGA and Lord of the Rings, which I hope is well-enough known not to cause any real puzzlement—plus the story should stand on its own.

 

~~~oo0oo~~~

"Lookin' kinda short there, Rodney."

Rodney glared up at Sheppard who was, of course, still tall, annoyingly suave-looking and dressed in a long, hooded gown, cinched with a leather belt. Sheppard was grinning and Rodney could tell he was slouching, hipshot, even through the dusty black robe. "Well, _you_ look like a crow or some sort of deranged monk, Colonel," Rodney snapped, peering down at his all-too-hobbity feet in dismay. Furry! After all he'd done, he'd ended up with the goddam furry feet. "I am going to fucking _murder_ Jeannie," he snarled.

"Aw, c'mon, Rodney, you know she didn't set it to give us specific avatars. The program itself's supposed to decide which persona—or which race, I guess—fits each player best. It's like the sorting hat!"

"Is the sorting hat also a feature of the _Lord of the Rings_ , John?" asked Teyla. "I had thought it existed in the Harry Potter universe."

"Yeah, Teyla. Mixing my fantasy metaphors there, sorry."

Rodney eyed Teyla enviously. She was obviously an elf – what else? Her ears were pointier than the Colonel's now and she wore a long tunic of soft olive green suede with a green-jeweled necklace around her throat. She was stunning. "I see everyone except me got to be hot," he complained bitterly. "I just got to be short."

"And furry," added Sheppard cheerfully, bouncing a little in his gown. "Oh hey, since I'm a wizard, let's see..." and he held one hand out palm up and bit his lip, a crease forming between his brows as though he were trying to turn on a recalcitrant piece of Ancient tech. "Ha!" A small flame danced on his palm.

"Well done, Colonel, you've discovered fire," said Rodney. He cocked his head. "Don't you need a wand or a staff for that sort of thing?"

"Nah," said Sheppard easily, "that's a fallacy, just more Harry Potter bullshit."

"Oh?" said Rodney, giving him a sharp look. "And you'd know that, how?"

Sheppard made a face and didn't meet his eyes. "I just do. Stop harshing my buzz, Rodney, this is fun."

Rodney let it go. "Well, at least it'll be of some practical use, since I don't imagine this VE runs to matches." Sheppard was beaming sappily at his conjured flame again, so Rodney turned away to see where they were.

Jeannie had sent Rodney the VE game as a cheering-up present after Jennifer dumped him. Johns Hopkins had offered Jen a prestigious research post and Rodney refused to abandon the city and move to Baltimore, so that was that – a little shouting, some tears, and whammo, he was yet again _sans_ girlfriend.

He sighed and tried to push it from his mind – this was supposed to be R and R, a distraction. The setting really was very impressive, and he admired the work that had gone into the path winding through sunlit glades and shadowed forest, crisply detailed with amazingly high-res imagery. Of course the Ancient VE pods could take anything and embellish it – even Pacman had turned into a terrifying 3-D monster-fest of huge chomping mouths charging around a network of lime green tunnels. Sheppard and Ronon, predictably, loved it.

The new VE technology was one thing the SGC had leaked—and made a fortune from—and Jeannie had branched out into game programming and was making quite a name for herself in fantasy VE circles. The coding was a breeze, and she could work from home, the fantasy scripts quite literally child's play with Madison's help. This really was exceptional work, though, and Rodney admired the soft breeze and the feel of damp grass under his bare feet. He curled his furry toes into the turf and let himself relax a little. Maybe this virtual vacation would work out after all.

That thought was rudely demolished by Ronon slapping Rodney on the back with excessive force, knocking him forward into Radek who was, Rodney noted with vicious satisfaction, even shorter and also furry-footed. Radek cursed in Czech as they disentangled themselves, his hair wild and glasses askew. He was wearing a waistcoat, as was Rodney. Well, at least the pockets would come in handy. Rodney unbuttoned a flap to find a small pouch with flint and tinder and some inexplicable tool, possibly for getting stones out of horses' hooves. He frowned at it: too much to hope for a Swiss Army knife, of course, with Jeannie such a stickler for details.

He buttoned the tool away again and turned to berate Ronon, who was...ha!...also really short. Well, short for Ronon, like he'd been squashed down by a pile-driver, his usual sleek muscle-mass compacted down to the same height as Teyla. He was probably tall as dwarves went, but then, this _was_ Ronon. He was grinning in fierce delight, bare-armed and swathed in leather, sword and axe strapped to the pack on his broad, stocky back. Rodney had to admit he was perfect as a dwarf.

"This is cool," boomed Ronon happily, voice deeply resonant. He grinned at Rodney. "You a hobbit?"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," said Rodney sourly. "And less of the assault and battery'd be nice, thank you very much." Beside him, Radek nodded vehemently, straightening his glasses with an angry sniff.

"Where's the food?" growled Ronon, looking around. "I'm hungry."

Rodney was about to make a cutting remark about one-track dwarvish appetites when his own stomach rumbled loudly at the thought of food and he realized he was starving. "Ooh!" He turned to clutch Radek's arm excitedly and they spoke in happy unison. "Second breakfast!"

~~~oo0oo~~~

Rodney warmed his hands at the campfire Sheppard had lit by pointing a finger at a heap of sticks and smirking. He glanced around – they were a motley group, about a third of the skeleton staff left on Atlantis across the holidays. The city was cloaked and lying low, parked off the Californian coast with her autopilot dodging nautical traffic, and most people had shore leave or were visiting family. Sheppard had organised the virtual outing with Woolsey's enthusiastic support, proving Rodney's theory that Woolsey was a closet D&D freak.

Bread, cheese and an apple filled Rodney's stomach nicely, but Woolsey hadn't let them break out the flasks of liquor from Radek's supplies, saying they needed to keep their wits about them. They each had a traveling pack, and the hobbits' had proven to contain most of the provisions. Lorne, the only remaining human in their number, had contributed dark bread, trail mix and dried meat.

Chuck and Woolsey were also hobbits, with Woolsey managing to look both ridiculous and dignified despite bare, hairy feet. He had an ornate tapestry waistcoat buttoned up over a high-collared shirt, with a plum-colored cravat knotted about his neck. One of Woolsey's pockets had yielded a beautifully carved pipe, and he was puffing away on it, chatting with Chuck on the far side of the fire.

Sheppard was propped on his elbows beside Rodney, his hood fallen back to expose the usual head of wild cowlicks. Rodney was glad, for no very clear reason, that Sheppard's hair was much the same and not a long, droopy mane like some sixties rock idol.

"I suppose you'll grow a beard," said Rodney, squinting over at Sheppard.

"Yeah," Sheppard said easily. "Working on it already. Pretty much mandatory for a wizard."

"So what, are you a black wizard, then?" asked Rodney, not much liking the sound of it.

"Nah, reckon I'm a gray wizard like Gandalf," Sheppard said. "Just, y'know, a really _dark_ gray."

"Hmmm," said Rodney distractedly, mind racing ahead to other, less happy thoughts. "You do realize there are eight of us?"

"Yeah, because Jeannie set it up for groups of eight to play," Sheppard said, giving him a _duh_ look.

"Well, yes, but that's the whole point." Rodney waved his hands impatiently. "A wizard, four hobbits, a man, an elf and a dwarf. Ring any bells?"

"So?" said Sheppard. "What if we are like the Fellowship of the Ring? It's a _Lord of the Rings_ spin-off after all; what'd you expect? Ren and Stimpy?"

"No, I just," muttered Rodney, chewing on his lip. "It's only..." He glanced across at Sheppard who was poking the campfire with a stick. "That means there's going to be a quest, right?" His eyes widened. "Oh my God! Jeannie's going to send us into Mordor, that bitch! I'm going to be eaten by orcs!"

~~~oo0oo~~~

"Jesus, Rodney, calm down," Sheppard said again, after Rodney's bout of hysterics had subsided, helped by a tot of firewater from one of Radek's flasks. Rodney coughed, eyes watering, as Radek stoppered the bottle and packed it away.

"You don't understand, Colonel; you didn't grow up with my sister. Under that domestic suburban camouflage lurks a heart as black as Sauron's." Rodney suppressed a moan, thinking how Jeannie might plan to 'distract' him. "You have plenty of weapons, right? Tell me you have weapons."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "I've got a staff around here somewhere. Might help me make things go boom." He gestured at Ronon. "And you know what Ronon's like." He turned. "You all tooled up to take on some goblins, Big Guy?"

Ronon grinned. "Yeah. Sword, axe, knives, a garrotte. Some of those throwing-star things."

Sheppard turned back to Rodney. "See? And I've got a sword, too."

"As have I, Rodney, as well as my bantos," Teyla said reassuringly. "And Major Lorne also has a sword." She patted his hand. "We are well provided to defend you. Have you also taken inventory?"

"Yes, yes," said Rodney. "The hobbit contingent's loaded up with food and drink, as expected, and mostly practical items. Tools for metalwork and woodwork, lock picks, flints and tinder." He nodded at Sheppard. "So we'll be okay if your pointer finger runs out of fuel, Colonel." Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Some things we don't recognize, but hopefully their use will become clear. Then there are navigational aids like maps and compasses, even a sextant. Chuck's got bandages and various herbs and salves – he's had medic training."

"Any idea what the quest is?" asked Lorne, who'd been helping Ronon kick dirt over the fire and pack away the last gear.

"Ah," said Woolsey, raising a finger. "I believe I may have found a clue. One of my pockets had a hidden pouch in it." He brought out a small roll of parchment.

Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently until it was handed to him. He spread it out on a flat stone. "Shit – it's in, I don't know, Ancient Elvish or something."

Woolsey shrugged apologetically. "Yes, I can't read it either. Teyla?"

She leaned over, then shook her head. "It is no language I have ever seen," she said.

Rodney frowned and turned the paper over. "Oh my god! Look!" He stabbed his finger at a drawing on the small scrap. Sheppard peered at it. "It looks like..."

"Yes!" said Rodney excitedly. It's a ZPM! That's the quest – we have to find the ZPM!"

"So pretty much business as usual," Sheppard drawled, grinning at Rodney.

"Yeah, yeah, except we don't have Gates, or coordinates, just this goddam clue in a language none of us can read," protested Rodney. He turned the parchment over and waved it at the others. "Lorne? Ronon? Have you tried yet?"

Lorne glanced at the writing but shook his head as well. "Nope, sorry."

Ronon took the roll of script off him and frowned down. "Looks like Old Satedan. They used to make us study it in Second School. Chants, poetry, old epics. Can't remember much now, though."

"Well, try, damn it," Rodney demanded. "You're Satedan, and a dwarf."

Woolsey nodded. "Yes. Perhaps in this place the dwarves made ZPMs in ancient times, and they were lost over the ages."

"Oh _fantastic_ ," muttered Rodney. "It's probably buried in some horrible cavern, with, with dragons, or trolls, or krakens, or some such."

"Let's not count our monsters before we've been eaten by them," said Sheppard blandly.

Ronon was still puzzling over the script on the yellowed parchment, mouthing words uncertainly.

Sheppard put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe I can help?" Ronon frowned, then nodded, and Sheppard rested a hand on his dreadlocks and closed his eyes in concentration.

A faint pink glow surrounded his fingers for a moment, and Ronon grunted, then shook off Sheppard's hand. He looked up. "What was that?"

"Some sort of memory charm, I think," said Sheppard. He shrugged apologetically. "It's kind of like with the Ancient tech. I don't always know exactly what things do, I just get a feeling."

"Worked, though," said Ronon. "More's coming back to me."

"So what does it _say_?" Rodney asked.

"I gotta translate it; it's kind of flowery," said Ronon, refusing to be rushed. He mumbled under his breath, while Rodney practically vibrated with impatience.

"Yeah, okay," Ronon said eventually. "Think I got most of it."

"Most of it? It's a crucial clue! One misplaced word and we could be in a set of caverns leagues away from the actual ZPM, being menaced by entirely the wrong monster!"

"So no pressure, then," added Sheppard unhelpfully, grinning at Ronon. Lorne smirked.

Ronon snorted. "Suck it up, McKay, it's the best I can do." He ran his stubby finger over the script again. "It says: _Over water, under stone, flower's center, heart of bone._ "

There was a long pause. "What?" protested Rodney. "That's all?" he snatched the parchment back from Ronon and glared at it. "There must be more than that. What are we supposed to do with _that_?"

"Right now? Fight," said Sheppard, suddenly grim. He'd drawn his sword, which was glowing blue-green. "You feel it?" he asked Teyla, and she nodded.

"Yes," she said. "It is almost like sensing the Wraith, but not quite–"

"Packs on and form a circle," shouted Lorne, herding the hobbits into the center as they struggled into their gear. Rodney tucked the precious scrap of parchment away in an inner pocket.

Teyla had drawn two blue-glowing swords, one in each hand, and Ronon had his axe out, and a broadsword almost longer than he was tall. Sheppard had his sword and staff, and Lorne wielded a long knife as well as his blade. Radek was waving a nasty-looking hooked implement and Chuck had a metal hammer from his pack. Lorne grabbed a couple of sturdy branches from the firewood pile and tossed them to Woolsey and Rodney. Rodney considered drawing his eating knife, but he figured there was as much chance of skewering one of his friends as an orc in the excitement, so left it strapped to his belt.

The hobbits stood back to back in the clearing, inside the protective circle of their better-armed comrades. The woods seemed darker than before, and Rodney thought he could smell something rotten on the breeze.

Then the orcs were upon them.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Afterward, Rodney couldn't remember the exact sequence of events: just confused shouts, grunts and metal clanging, elven-steel blades carving glowing swathes, spraying arcs of black blood—and trust Sheppard to have gotten himself the fantasy equivalent of a lightsaber. The orcs were grotesque, features lost in masses of lumps and nodules. Their misshapen limbs bristled with knives and spiked weaponry, and they screamed as they fell before Ronon's broadsword and Teyla's blades, glowing in deadly tandem as she spun and thrust.

Sheppard managed to get his staff working and exploded a whole nasty cluster of the things—although Rodney was sure his yells of "Geronimo!" and sparkly pink explosions were somewhat outside normal wizardly parameters. _Gray wizard indeed,_ thought Rodney hysterically, _one consonant too many!_ He wiped sweat out of his eyes and blinked at Sheppard, who was decapitating something with far too many limbs—here they were at death's door again and Rodney _still_ hadn't told him how he felt. And how in hell Sheppard thought he was hiding the gayness when even his magic was pink and sparkly...

Some goblins broke through between Lorne and Teyla and there was no more time for regrets or revelations. He knocked a wizened thing like a shark-mouthed monkey towards Sheppard, who skewered it neatly. Black blood clotted the glowing blade then vanished, leaving it pristine. Woolsey swung his branch like a baseball bat, dispatching lesser goblins into the trees, and Rodney lurched forward, blocking an orc's knife with his own hunk of wood before it stabbed into Woolsey's shoulder. Radek disemboweled it with his hook, the foul stench making them reel back, gagging. The wounded orc crawled towards them, hissing, until Chuck brained it with his hammer.

No more of the ghastly things breached the perimeter of warriors, and the onslaught was easing, a last few monsters scuttling off into the forest. Around the clearing's edge, twisted forms in grimy leather and straps lay in black-stained heaps. Lorne turned them over with his boot, checking that none still lived, his sword slicing heads from hunched bodies if there was any doubt.

"Okay, wait," said Sheppard, frowning. "Maybe I can..." He pointed his staff and a heap of orc carcasses vanished in a pink sparkly puff. "Seriously cool," said Sheppard, bouncing a little then doing it again, apparently unworried about any wizardly street cred.

"Ah, sir?" said Lorne. "Maybe I should search them first. Before you disappear them?"

"Oh, right," said Sheppard. "Yeah, good point. Okay, Major, carry on." He turned and wandered back to Rodney, making a face. "Eww. Rather him than me." Rodney agreed – no way was he going to touch those things voluntarily. Across the clearing, Lorne pulled on a pair of leather gloves and began picking through a pile of orcs.

Teyla drew a sullen-looking Ronon over to the hobbits. " 's just a scratch," Ronon muttered.

"Special care must be taken, Ronon: these weapons are unclean. Can you help him, Chuck?"

Chuck nodded. "Remove his armband, please." A jagged cut ran down Ronon's forearm. Not long, but it looked deep. "Radek?" asked Chuck, and Radek nodded, rummaging in one of the packs for the flask they'd opened earlier. "Rodney, Mr Woolsey. Would you?" Chuck requested, and they held Ronon's arm steady as Radek poured liquor into the wound. Ronon bared his teeth at the pain, shuddering, and Rodney swallowed and looked away.

"Whoa," said Sheppard, peering down. "Nasty."

"Do you have any healing spells?" asked Chuck, glancing up.

Sheppard got an inward-focused look, then shook his head. "There's one for sewing up a goose before roasting, but I don't think that works without the stuffing. Sorry."

"Guess we're doing it the old-fashioned way, then," said Chuck, finding a needle and thread in a waistcoat pocket and dousing it in Radek's booze.

"Oh my god," moaned Rodney. "I'm trapped in a medieval VE without anesthetics!"

"Hey," said Sheppard, poking him. "You're not the one being sewn up, and anyway, I could stun him if I needed to."

Ronon growled and bristled, and Chuck tsked exasperatedly. "Rodney, Colonel—please!"

"Sorry, Chuck," said Sheppard. "Plus, there's Radek's flasks. Bet that stuff'd lay you out cold, if you drank enough."

"The supply is not inexhaustible, Colonel," said Radek, cocking an eyebrow.

"Don't need it," muttered Ronon truculently.

"Anyway, we can't have Ronon incapacitated," said Rodney, glancing nervously around the now-sinister clearing. "We didn't kill them all. Some got away, and for all we know there's a horde of the horrible things about to descend on us. There could be nests of them under our feet, or a, a hive or something. Hmmm..." He paused, biting his lip. "Is it just me, or did what passed for their faces look like Wraith drones?"

"Maybe a bit," agreed Sheppard, nodding. "Look, Rodney. You've got a point, but there's no need to panic. We'll go once Ronon's patched up."

"Go where?" asked Radek, strapping his pack shut.

Chuck finished the sutures and began spreading salve on the cut, then bandaging it. "In my pack," he said, gesturing with his chin. "I found a better map when I was looking for the first-aid supplies."

Radek got out the scroll and they bent over it. A red dot in a green forested area was marked _You are here_ in curling script. "Very droll," Radek said. "Perhaps it is like GPS or Marauder's Map, and will show us as we move." He peered through his spectacles. "At least no bands of orcs are visible."

"Forget Harry Potter!" snapped Rodney. "Jeannie's too much of a purist to mix it up like that. It's probably just an ordinary map."

"Want me to sprinkle some pixie dust on it?" Sheppard asked.

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "Is that why your magic's pink? You've probably been saying _Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo_ under your breath the whole time!"

Sheppard looked shifty. "I grew up on Disney, McKay. You gotta work with what you know." He reached down and tapped the map. "Abracadabra!" Nothing happened. "Worth a try," Sheppard said, shrugging.

Rodney shook his head. "I just bet you were in junior D&D club. Were your parents worried about your fascination with all things magical and sparkly?"

"Sheppard scowled. "No, not so much. Give it a rest already, McKay."

"Sir?" Lorne was jogging over, dark-stained gloves under his arm. He held out a crumpled piece of parchment. "One of the big bruisers Ronon killed had this in a pouch."

"It's only a scrap..." muttered Rodney, comparing them. "Oh, wait, these bits match up...yes. Look, it's the same as our map, with the forest here, and this blue bit, and the symbols for mountains up there. See? I can superimpose them." He nudged the remnant Lorne had found into place, carefully aligning the two maps. "It's got writing on it, too, but very small and smudged."

The map suddenly flared bright gold, then faded to dull brown again. The broken fragment Lorne had found was gone. Instead, letters in red-gold script glowed on the map where it had been.

"Ah," murmured Woolsey, "of course. We survived the challenge, so we earned a prize." He shook his head. "My eyes aren't up to such small script, I'm afraid. Ronon?"

"Yeah...Old Satedan again," said Ronon, peering at the writing. He tapped the map. "Overwater."

"Not that damn poem clue again," said Rodney, annoyed. "How did it go?"

"Over water, under stone, flower's center, heart of bone," repeated Ronon. "But it's not over water—said I couldn't be sure about the words. It's Overwater." He pointed at the bottom edge of the blue area.

"Over _water_ , _over_ water, whatever. There's no difference!" Rodney stood and scrubbed his hands through his hair. Stupid cryptic clues, but he couldn't hack the system—the others'd kill him, faster than any orcs.

"It's not a way to go, McKay," rumbled Ronon. "It's a town—Overwater."

"Right," said Sheppard. "Yeah, Overwater, on the southern tip of this long lake-thing, here. Maybe two or three hours trek north, if we make good time and the terrain's not too rough."

"I agree, Colonel," said Woolsey. "We should head for this place. Perhaps we can find someone there who recognizes the rest of the rhyme."

"Worth a try," said Sheppard. "C'mon, people. Grab your things and let's go."

"Marvelous," muttered Rodney, pulling on his pack. "Another grueling hike. And not even a puddlejumper to get us there this time."

Sheppard sighed. "I miss the jumpers," he said.

Rodney patted his arm. "Cheer up, Colonel. I'm sure Jeannie's written in something for you to fly."

"You think?" Sheppard brightened. "Jeannie's cool." He clapped Rodney on the shoulder and chivvied him along the forest path towards the others.

"At least we can get a hot meal," said Rodney, falling into step. "I could do with some supper after all that excitement. Maybe crusty bread and a nice lamb stew?" He stopped dead, causing Sheppard to stumble into him and curse. "There'd better not just be vegetables on the menu, or I'll kill her."

"Jeez, Rodney, shut up and walk," said Sheppard, hauling him along.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Overwater had probably started life as a fishing village, but it was much larger now. A sprawling town built out over the lake, it rested on stone piers and wooden piles in a complex tangle of multi-level jetties, rafts and boarded-over boats, linked by wooden steps and bridges.

The road led them in over a drawbridge that could be pulled up with hawsers running through huge iron rings. Once the ramp was raised, the town was cut off from land, a small river flowing across the road and emptying into the lake. Some things disliked crossing running water, Rodney remembered, so maybe that helped even though the stream wasn't very wide.

There were guards, but Overwater was a trading town so travelers were welcome and they were only briefly questioned. The townsfolk were used to a variety of visitors, and their own motley band raised no eyebrows. Woolsey enquired about an inn and was pointed to the hostelry quarter, on the western waterfront. Dusk was falling as they trudged in the direction indicated, Rodney eyeing the uneven decking dubiously, poorly lit as it was by flickering torches and lanterns.

"Move it, Rodney," said Sheppard, chivvying him up some steps. "I could use a beer."

"Some of us don't have clomping great boots to protect our feet, Colonel. These platforms could be rife with splinters."

"You're a hobbit—you don't _need_ footwear. I bet the soles of your feet are tougher than my boots." Sheppard waved a hand at the steps. "Plus, you've got natural insulation."

"Oh, another furry joke, hilarious!" Rodney glared up at Sheppard, who waggled his eyebrows annoyingly. "This obsession with my furry feet is getting a little worrying. Keep your fetishes to yourself!"

"I don't—" muttered Sheppard, flushing, but Woolsey was calling them together in a small square, gesturing up at a hanging sign.

"This seems as good a place as any," he announced. Rodney looked up—it was called _The Pegasus_ , a winged horse like the expedition logo decorating the sign in faded blue and silver.

"Hey, it's an inn-joke," said Sheppard, grinning. "Nice one, Jeannie. Looks like we're on the right track."

"Don't get too complacent," warned Rodney. "I bet she's booby-trapped it somehow."

Ronon had already stomped inside, and now stuck his head back out around the door-frame. "What's keeping you? Looks safe enough." He vanished and they followed in short order, anxious to rest and wash the dust of the road from their throats.

Half an hour later Rodney had eaten his own dinner and Sheppard's left-overs as well. No lamb, but the tasty fish chowder had been equally satisfying. He burped contentedly. Ronon grinned and followed suit, an octave lower.

Teyla gave them the look she reserved for ill-mannered children. "If you are descending to competitive flatulence, I believe I will retire," she announced.

"I'm for bed as well," said Chuck. They were sharing a room—it had been agreed they'd all share as a safety precaution, although the inn seemed shabbily respectable.

"And I also," said Radek, wincing a little as he straightened and hoisted his pack. Woolsey rose too, and went to follow the others up the rickety stairs.

"Mr Woolsey?" called Rodney, scrambling to his feet. "Do you have that map Chuck found? I need to study it some more."

Woolsey nodded and handed the scroll over. "Keep it safe, Dr. McKay," he said. "And don't stay up too late."

"I doubt my sleep-cycle's radically different just because I'm a hobbit," Rodney muttered, taking the parchment and spreading it on the table. He hated being mother-henned. He pretended not to see Woolsey give Sheppard a look, or the Colonel's answering nod as Woolsey turned to go.

"Want another ale, McKay?" asked Lorne, hefting the flagon. Ronon and Sheppard held out their mugs and he filled them, and his own.

"No, and don't you dare spill that on our only real clue," said Rodney, curving his arm protectively around the map. "Anyway, I need to keep my wits about me. I know my sister and believe me, anything could happen."

"I think this end of the lake's a little shallow for whales, Rodney," said Sheppard, licking foam off his upper lip.

Rodney was briefly transfixed by Sheppard's tongue, then he shook it off and scowled. "You say that now, but wait until we're out on deeper water." He poked Sheppard in the ribs. "Krakens. Possibly giant squid."

"Mmmm, calamari," rumbled Ronon. "It's good deep-fried."

" _Giant_ squid," repeated Rodney darkly. "With _suckers_."

"Out on deep water?" asked Lorne. "You think we'll have to sail?" Sheppard also cocked an eyebrow.

"I've been thinking about this map," Rodney said. "There wasn't a lot else to do while we were walking and my mind doesn't just stop, you know, especially when we're in hostile territory being menaced by orcs."

"With a band of intrepid warriors protecting you," Sheppard added mildly.

"Yes, yes," said Rodney, peering at the map. "Aha, here!" He stabbed a finger at the north end of the long, thin, zigzagging lake.

The others stared down, brows furrowed, and Ronon took the scroll and turned it around to study the details.

"The shape of the lake's the main giveaway," said Rodney, impatient for them to get it.

Lorne peered over Ronon's shoulder. "Looks like a dammed-up river, like a hydroelectric power station lake. I flew over a few in Colorado on training flights."

"Yeah, see what you mean," agreed Sheppard. "But there'd be no power stations here—"

"No, no, of course not," Rodney broke in. "It won't be man-made. Might be a natural dam from an earthquake, or, hell, I don't know, made by _giants_. Oh my god—there might be giants!" He swallowed nervously and grabbed Sheppard's mug, taking a swig.

Sheppard raised his eyebrows and reclaimed his ale. "No need to go all eighties alt. rock on us there, Rodney."

"More likely to be dwarves," said Ronon. "Giants don't build things, just smash 'em."

"Well, possibly, yes," conceded Rodney. "That makes a certain amount of sense. And since you're the expert on all things dwarvish, tell me if that thing there is labeled something like 'plughole'." He pointed to a blue spiral at the very top of the lake.

"Water Chute," read Ronon, peering at the tiny, glowing script.

"Wow—it's a hydroslide?" Sheppard was beaming.

"Only you could be thrilled at the prospect of going down a drain, Colonel," Rodney said acidly. "We crossed the river that feeds into the lake at this end, so there has to be an outlet at the other end or the water level would just keep rising, and clearly that's not the case or this place would be several fathoms deep." He tapped the spiral. "Whether it's natural drainage or some massive ancient engineering project,"—Ronon gave him a pointed look—"yes, yes, by _dwarves_ ," Rodney said, exasperated, "anyway, it's effectively a plughole. And I'm very much afraid that it's linked to the next part of the rhyme."

"Under...stone..." intoned Ronon solemnly, either channeling his heritage or mildly tipsy.

Sheppard was beaming. "You think Jeannie wants us to go down some dwarf-built hydroslide?"

"Some terrifying _underground_ hydroslide," Rodney said heavily. "Under 'stone', which means under a mountain, looking at that map. In the _dark_." He glared at Sheppard. "This is all your fault—she knows you love this sort of crap. She's totally indulging you."

"Jeannie's the best," Sheppard said happily. "A hydroslide—that's so cool!"

"Built by _dwarves,_ " added Ronon proudly.

Rodney sank his head into his hands and groaned.

~~~oo0oo~~~

"Please to be quiet about sea monsters, Rodney," moaned Radek, slumped retching over the railing of the Nautilus, a russet-sailed barque on which they'd taken passage.

Sheppard had persuaded the Nautilus's captain to sail them to the top of the lake in return for magicking away all the boat's rats—the sight of a horde of vermin leaping into the water and swimming for the nearest pontoon had caused quite a stir, and much brandishing of pitchforks. Their captain, who had a scarred, milky eye and went by the worrying name of Blind Berrin, had laughed heartily as the townsfolk scurried about chasing rodents. Rodney was glad they weren't planning to return this way.

"I'm just saying that it looks very deep, so who knows what's down there. I'd get back from that railing if I were you, Radek," said Rodney, feeling smug that for once he wasn't the medical weak link. The wind had risen and as the lake's surface got choppier some of their company had succumbed to _mal de mer_ , but Rodney seemed immune.

"You're not a keen sailor then, Dr Zelenka," noted Chuck, trying to get Radek to drink some herbal cordial from a small blue-glass bottle.

"I am from Czech Republic," muttered Radek, batting Chuck's hand away. "Is land-locked." Chuck patted Radek's shoulder and moved on down the railing to try and persuade Woolsey to try his tonic.

"Maybe you should eat a power bar or something," suggested Rodney, prompting Radek to bend over, racked by more spasms.

"Rodney, do not take this the wrong way," croaked Radek, wiping his mouth, "but fuck off. Go and torment the Colonel."

Sheppard, Lorne and Teyla were up on the bridge, talking with the captain. Ronon was wedged into a corner behind them, looking green. He was scowling and flicking one of his knives repeatedly into the deck.

"Dwarves don't like sailing either?" Rodney asked, sidling up to Ronon and bracing himself against the barque's pitch and roll.

"Boats are stupid," growled Ronon. "Land's better; doesn't keep moving all the time. You can fight on land."

"Pirates fight on the sea," Rodney pointed out. "And I'd have thought your lower center of gravity'd be helpful, if anything. Anyway, we're not going to be fighting here." He glanced nervously at Ronon. "Unless you know something I don't?"

"Know lots of things you don't," Ronon muttered angrily.

Rodney shook his head, long suffering. "Yes, about _knives_. I meant actual, you know, _useful_ knowledge."

"Know you're a dick," growled Ronon. The knife thunked into the bulkhead beside Rodney's head, and he skittered back to hide behind Sheppard. Ronon was sitting in his corner glaring up at the knife which was now out of his reach. He pulled another from a boot-sheath and began flicking it into the deck again.

"Hey, stay clear of Ronon," murmured Sheppard, bending down a little. "He's not feeling so hot and it's pissing him off."

"I noticed. Thanks for the far-too-late warning," snapped Rodney. "You three all right?"

"Yeah, said Sheppard. "I don't think elves get seasick—didn't they sail from the Grey Havens or something? So you're okay, too?"

"It appears so. It's weird being healthier than Ronon. Seems against the natural order of things."

Sheppard grinned, then shot Ronon a guilty glance. "Me and Lorne're pilots—you don't get to fly jets if you're prone to motion-sickness. Hardly matters though, with the inertial dampeners."

"Hmmm," mused Rodney. "I wonder if we could fit inertial dampeners to a boat. Those ferries to San Francisco are very unpleasant in rough weather."

Sheppard had turned away and was listening to Teyla work her charm on the captain. Rodney stepped closer, annoyed at how short he was, and how that made all the tall people ignore him. He had a fleeting urge to tug on Sheppard's robe, and it made him feel like a kid again. He'd been a horrible child, mostly because people had ignored him despite his being so much smarter and quicker and _righter_ than they were. He sighed. Being short never seemed to bother Teyla, but then, she was superhuman.

"So we are nearly at Dwarfharbor, the town at the lake's northern tip?" Teyla was asking, leaning towards the captain a little and pushing out her chest.

Blind Berrin's bad eye seemed to be staring right down her cleavage, but after a second he collected himself and cleared his throat. "It's not, ah, not quite at the north end of the lake, ma'am. Can't get boats up there because of the Sinkhole. Dwarfharbor's as far up as it's safe to go."

"Say, can you tell us some more about this Sinkhole thing?" asked Sheppard. "You said it's a giant whirlpool. Any local stories about it?"

" _Eater of men, scourge of shipping_ ," recited the captain, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. " _Endlessly hungry, never still. None who are taken return._ "

"Charming," said Rodney. He glared up at Sheppard. "A one-way trip; sounds like a barrel of laughs."

" _Lair of the Wurm,_ " continued the captain, his good eye a little glassy. " _All hail the Wurm._ "

"Don't like the sound of that, sir," muttered Lorne, leaning in and frowning.

Sheppard grimaced. "Yeah, pretty weird. Stay alert—we may have a cult here." Lorne nodded.

"What is this 'worm', captain?" asked Teyla. The captain seemed to have forgotten she was there, but after a moment he shook his head and blinked at her.

"The great Wurm. It guards the Sinkhole and must be appeased."

"Appeased," repeated Sheppard, his eyes narrowing. "Right."

"Oh, not good, not good at all," muttered Rodney. "I've got a very bad feeling about this."

"Hey!" It was Ronon, glowering up from the deck. "This place Dwarfharbor. There any dwarves there?"

The captain shook his head. "The mountain folk have not been seen for two generations. They built the town, so it is said." He tilted his head at Ronon and frowned. "You are the first I have met. I did not expect you to be so...short."

"Could still chop your legs off," muttered Ronon, scowling.

There was a commotion at the stern, sailors yelling and scrambling back away from the railing. Someone screamed, and there were cries of "The Wurm, the Wurm!"

"The Wurm!" moaned the captain, his face pallid. "We are lost!"

Rodney did tug on Sheppard's robe now. "Radek and Woolsey! And Chuck—they're down there by the railing!"

"Stay here," snapped Sheppard, and he, Lorne and Teyla vaulted down to the main deck and ran to grab the others. Rodney stared after them, then out across the lake, shading his eyes. It was overcast and the gray sky gave the water a dark, menacing look. It was hard to tell if there was anything moving under the surface, with the lake churned up in places by the wind.

Rodney turned back to the captain, to find a dagger at his throat. He raised his hands and craned back a little. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that there were four seamen holding Ronon down and tying him up. They moved on to Rodney next, binding his hands tightly. "Ow," he complained. "Is it essential to completely cut off my circulation?" One of them cuffed him and he subsided.

Ronon and Rodney were carried bodily down to the main deck, where they were stacked beside the other six, all trussed up like turkeys. Sheppard had his "kill you with my brain" glare going on, but Rodney didn't think he really could—not even here.

"Ready the pod," ordered the captain, and the sailors scurried to obey, throwing off canvas covers to reveal a long, shiny-hulled speckled brown object shaped like a bean pod. A monstrous legume, though, thirty feet long and four or five feet wide. It was divided into nine or ten bulbous segments, exactly like a bean pod. Rodney stared—he'd assumed it was a lifeboat.

"Hurry! Get on with it!" yelled the captain, peering fearfully at the lake. A large, thick-necked seaman fiddled with some primitive locking bars and pegs mid-way along one side, then half a dozen of the crew lifted the lid of the pod and opened it wide. Others on the deck manhandled Radek up and dumped him in one of the end segments. He spat and swore at them in Czech, but they ignored him.

"What _is_ this thing?" Rodney asked urgently, as the sailors folded Teyla into the next segment, then hoisted up Chuck. "What's it for?"

"They grow," said the captain. "On giant vines–"

"Yes, yes, I'd guessed that much. But why put us in it?"

"It is the ritual of appeasement," said the captain. "Sometimes the Wurm appears." He shrugged. "We try to carry passengers. Often the Wurn is content with a pod of strangers, and leaves the vessel in peace."

"Oh, charming!" yelled Rodney as they hauled him up into the pod and crammed him into the small curving space, curled up on his side. "So you lure travelers on board and then sacrifice them to this, this thing! I knew there'd be whales! Jeannie, are you listening? I'm going to _murder_ you! This is worse than the time you cut up my comic collection!" Rodney couldn't stop ranting, his panic overflowing. "Some present _this_ was. 'Here's a little something to take your mind off things, Mer' – yeah, right! Take my mind off it with a _heart_ attack!"

A shadow fell over the gap between the lid and base of the pod. Rodney barely had a moment to register the creature from nightmare looming over them – a sea serpent, taller than the barque's mainmast and as thick around as an ancient oak tree. Its gaping jaws opened wide, water and slime dripping down, and it gave a terrible, trumpeting cry, moaning like a demented foghorn. The sailors slammed the lid down and Rodney heard the locking poles thud home, then something—it had to be the monster—picked the pod up and they were in violent, sickening motion, up and over and down, like the worst fairground ride imaginable.

They were packed into their segments so tightly that no bouncing around was possible, so Rodney was jolted but not injured, and the monster set them down on the water surprisingly gently. Then it felt as though they were being propelled forward across the lake. It was dim inside the pod, but a little light did leak through the casing. No water, however, or at least, Rodney hoped the other segments were as dry as his own. Either the pods were naturally watertight, or they'd been engineered. _By dwarves_ he imagined Ronon saying.

Rodney hoped Sheppard and Lorne were okay. The hobbits and Ronon and Teyla fit more easily into the pod segments, but it must be hell for anyone taller. Not that it really mattered of course when they were all going to die very soon, carried to a serpent's lair and consumed at its leisure. He hated to think of Sheppard in pain, though, in his last remaining moments. Hated that they were all separated from each other. Rodney didn't want to die like this, and he didn't want the others to die, but especially not Sheppard. John. _Should have told him how I feel,_ he thought sadly, as the lake sped past inches away through the skin of the pod. _I'll never know if he really was flirting all these years, now that we're going to be worm food._ Christ—they literally _were_ going to be worm food. He choked back a bitter laugh.

Another noise was growing outside, not far ahead. Deep and rushing, with a bone-deep vibration, getting louder and louder until it filled Rodney's ears and he could barely think for the thundering roar. _The Sinkhole_ he thought desperately. _It's pushing us into the damn Sinkhole!_ Oh, this was even worse, they were going to be smashed on the rock walls of the outlet and drowned.

Rodney tried to imagine the interplay of centrifugal and centripetal forces in a drainage tube large enough to take a small river. Which way would it rotate? But the noise was at a pitch now to crush all conscious thought, and they were falling and spinning, under water and under stone. Briefly it seemed that he was weightless, in free fall, and then everything faded into darkness.

~~~oo0oo~~~

He struggled, confused, as the treacherous crew of the Nautilus manhandled him—he'd known that name was a warning, but would anyone listen to him? The bastards were trying to kill him and Rodney fought them feebly, but then he realized his wrists had been freed and someone was pressing a metal cup to his mouth and gruffly telling him to stop being an eejit and drink. The water was sweet, and he gulped at it thirstily. Not dead, then? Not broken into a thousand bloody bits in the chaos of the Sinkhole? Rodney opened his eyes.

A cross between Santa and a leather daddy peered back at him, lips pursed, the drooping mustache and long white beard incongruous against his studded hide jerkin, muscular arms wound round with intricately worked torcs and armbands that gleamed gold in the flickering light of torches. "Orrite then, young fella?" asked this apparition. "Calmed down a bit, 'ave we?" He tapped his chest. "Rundenspiel. The wizard said that you go by Rodney."

Rodney gaped, then sat up abruptly. "John? Where is he? The others?"

"Sure, sure, they're all here, don't worry," said the—Rodney finally registered his short stature and Ronon-like appearance—dwarf.

Rodney set his jaw truculently. "I want to see them. Where are they?"

"Havin' a bite to eat," said Rumplestiltskin or whatever he was called, helping Rodney to stand. "You were the last to rouse. Must've fainted."

"Excuse _me_ ," said Rodney shaking off the creature's arm and getting up unsteadily from the padded stone platform where he'd been lying. "I do not _faint_. I'm just weak with hunger, and, and, with stress. That was very..." but words failed him. They'd just been thrown into the equivalent of Charybdis by a ravening sea-beast and sluiced down a monstrous plughole right under a mountain range. Stressful didn't really cover it. And it also raised the question: where the hell were they now? It seemed to be an enormous underground cavern, lit by torches.

He followed the dwarf along high, stone-hewn steps that fell away like an amphitheater, circling a dark, rippling lake. At the very furthest end, almost out of earshot, a waterfall thundered down from above—presumably the outlet of the Sinkhole. It really _was_ like a hydroslide, splashdown pool and all. Below them, the opened and empty pod floated quietly, moored to a metal ring.

His guide took a turn to the left, through a curtain. Rodney pushed in after him, to find light and noise and color. His friends were sitting around a large wooden table with several more dwarves, their beards gray or white, wrinkled faces glowing in the candlelight. On the table were the remains of several roast birds, cheese and bread, and a big bowl of fruit. Rodney's stomach growled.

"Hey, Rodney!" called Sheppard, beckoning him over and pulling him down onto a wooden bench. "Come have some food." He grinned sheepishly around at the dwarves. "Guys, it's usually McKay who's crap with names, but we _have_ just taken the ultimate thrill-ride, so you're gonna have to forgive me for being distracted." Thrill-ride? Rodney glared at Sheppard, and the moron grinned back at him, all happy and relaxed after their terrifying ordeal. Not for the first time, Rodney wondered why in hell they were even friends, let alone...

"You know my name," said whatsisname to Rodney, who absolutely didn't. His dwarf turned to the others. "I go by Rundenspiel." He gestured for the graybeard beside Lorne to continue.

"An' I'm Grackhorn."

The names washed over Rodney as he tucked into a plate of food Teyla had assembled. Ronon seemed almost awed, looking from one bearded face to the next and mouthing their names silently as the dwarves reeled off unfamiliar syllables. Rodney suddenly realized that for Ronon it must be like finding a group of surviving Satedans—here, his people still existed. Well, a few of them, anyway. He wondered why they were all so old.

After putting away a couple of drumsticks and a thick wedge of bread and cheese, Rodney tuned in to the conversation again. Woolsey was holding forth.

"So we were captured by the unscrupulous crew of our vessel, who delivered us to a sea-monster who then threw us into the Sinkhole, and here we are, a little battered but unbowed." Rodney curled his lip. Woolsey was getting more flowery the longer they were in here.

"The mechanism's still workin' orrite, then," commented a thick-set dwarf with long iron-gray plaits. The other dwarves nodded sagely.

"Wait," said Rodney. "What mechanism? It's just a giant drain."

Rundenspiel looked pained. "Systems ain't always just mechanical you know—well, 'cept for the fluting on the chute that keeps the pods centered and safe on the way down. That took some engineering." The other dwarves nodded.

Grackhorn shook his head reminiscently, chuckling. "Took us a decade to carve those runnels properly," he said. "Out by a hairsbreadth and that chute'd be a deathtrap."

"You mean it's _not_ a deathtrap?" asked Rodney snidely. Sheppard kicked him under the table.

"Oh no, young fella," said an exceptionally wizened dwarf with gold-studded wrist torcs who was sitting beside Radek. "Precision engineered, that is. Work of art."

"O' course," said a thinner dwarf with his hair wound in a gray plait around his head. "We're a bit past it now. Was really meant for the young ones to 'ave a bit of fun."

"Fun?" Rodney spluttered into his cup of watered wine. "How is being set upon by a sea-monster _fun_?"

"Ah that's just Gertie," said Grackhorn, smiling fondly. "She's a good old girl. Still loves to guide the pods into the chute, even after all this time. She can get a bit over-excited, but she'd never 'arm you."

"Gertie," muttered Rodney faintly. "Overexcited." He took a long drink.

"You mentioned some younger dwarves, Yorrigan," Teyla—who as usual had been paying attention in class—said to the dwarf with the plait around his head. "Are they not still here?"

Yorrigan shook his head sadly. "They moved away when we lost the the ore," he explained. "Had to find work somewhere, din't they?"

"But you stayed behind?" asked Radek.

The wizened old dwarf sitting beside him shrugged. "'s our ancestral home, innit? Someone's got to keep the old place ticking over." He sighed. "'course, the women went with the young 'uns—a girl needs her mam when it's birthing time, after all."

"We see them sometimes," Rundenspiel said. "They come and visit with the littleuns."

"Come to nag and call us old fools, you mean," muttered a dwarf with short, bristly gray hair and a plaited beard.

Yorrigan sighed. "It can be more restful when it's just us, but it'd be nice to 'ave a bit more goin' on around here." He made a rueful face. "But that's enough of our woes. What brings you to Dwarfholm?"

"Got a quest," rumbled Ronon. "Following clues."

"Aye," agreed Grackhorn. "We figured as much. It's mostly quests. Quests or banishments or just plain foul play, as brings strangers to us." He tilted his head and eyed Ronon. "Where are you from, lad?"

"Sateda," said Ronon. "It's gone now."

"Grackhorn nodded. "I've not heard of it, but many of the old places're no more, sad to say. So you've thrown your lot in with these folks, then?"

"Yep," said Ronon. "We're looking for the flower's heart."

"No," put in Rodney. "Wait, that's not right." He fished the scrap of parchment out of his pouch. Rundenspiel leaned over and peered at the drawing of the ZPM, but shook his head. "Might be dwarvish, hard to say. Not very decorative, or practical."

"Oh, it's practical, all right," said Rodney. "It'll power a world, hooked up right."

Yorrigan raised an eyebrow. "Now, that I'd like to see."

"He's always tryin' to get more power for the forges and manufactories," confided Rundenspiel to Rodney. "Bit of a nut about power generation, is Yorrigan."

Rodney turned the paper over. "it's 'flower's center, heart of bone' not flower's heart," he said to Ronon. Ronon shrugged and crunched an apple.

The dwarves had gone still. "Flower's center, you say?" asked Rundenspiel. He exchanged a glance with Grackhorn.

"And he said 'heart of bone'," Grackhorn muttered.

"That mean something?" asked Sheppard, looking around the table. None of the dwarves would meet his eye. "Rundenspiel?"

"Not sure we should tell you," muttered Rundenspiel. "You can't get there, anyway. Too risky."

"So what is it, what does it mean?" asked Rodney, impatient. "You obviously recognize it."

"Aye, lad," said the old, wizened dwarf. "But not all things should be told, just because they're known."

"Yeah, that's not a concept Rodney's got much truck with," said Sheppard easily, trying to charm the old codgers, Rodney thought. "He's all about telling people everything he knows."

"You know perfectly well that I've worked under extremely strict Non-Disclosure Agreements for years, Colonel. Years." Rodney glared at Sheppard.

"Why can't we get there?" asked Ronon, ignoring their bickering.

"Orcs," explained Grackhorn, spreading his hands apologetically. "We lost control of that part of the workings a generation ago, when the orcs moved in.

"We can handle orcs," said Ronon.

"Whoa there, tiger," said Sheppard quickly. "We can handle _some_ orcs. Depends how many there are."

"Too many," said Rundenspiel bleakly. "It's an infestation."

"Wait, wait," said Rodney, waving his hands. "We still don't know what the rhyme means. Ah, Rundenspiel?"

The dwarf blew out a breath. "Aye, very well. But only as you're with the lad here." He nodded at Ronon, who ducked his head, pleased. "They're one an' the same. The galleries where we mined the ore are all around a central core, like the petals of a flower, see? The chamber at the heart 'as all the controls, an' we can't work the ore without it, but it's full of orcs." He gestured around the table. "We're too few and too old to put paid to 'em."

"What is this ore?" asked Radek.

"It's what all elven and dwarvish weapons're made of: adamantium."

"Adamantium?" snorted Rodney.

Sheppard grinned at him. "Thought you said Jeannie wouldn't mix the streams?"

"She's always been keen on adamantium," conceded Rodney.

"What's this adamantium stuff?" asked Chuck, looking baffled. Clearly not a Marvel fan.

"'s the hardest metal in the known worlds," explained Yorrigan. He indicated Teyla's swords. "Those're made from adamantium—it lights up when evil's afoot."

"Yeah, we noticed," said Sheppard. He laid his sword on the table as well. "This one too?"

"Aye," nodded Rundenspiel. "That as well." He touched the interlaced runes down the blade. "Can't be worked with a forge—y'need wizardry. Old magic, dwarvish magic."

"But where does the 'heart of bone' bit come in?" asked Lorne.

"Adamantium's dragon bone," said Yorrigan. "Pressed in the earth for millennia. That's what our mine is—the skellington of an ancient dragon. The central chamber's where its heart used to be."

"Hearts aren't made of bone," Chuck objected, frowning.

" _Dragons'_ hearts are," said Rundenspiel. "Everyone knows that."

There was a lengthy pause. "Right, so let me get this straight," said Rodney eventually. "Your old adamantium mine workings—the bones of an ancient dragon—have a central chamber where we might, if this carries any weight,"—he waved the scrap of parchment—"find a hidden ZPM. But the mine's infested with orcs and you need our help to eradicate them."

"Piece of piss," said Ronon.

~~~oo0oo~~~

In the end, it came down to engineering, as most things did in Rodney's experience. He and Radek got a crash course from the dwarves in the mine workings, parchment after parchment laid out on the table with maps, elevations, and intricate scale drawings. The old dwarves were cunning and skilled, but they'd lacked drive and almost lost hope. That was changing now.

Over the next few days, the underground lake outlet was blocked and diverted and when all was ready Sheppard used his fire magic—directed by Yorrigan who was the dwarves' main explosives expert—to blast away a thin wall of rock separating two galleries. A wall of water swept through the old mine carrying orcs and goblins with it. Many were dashed on jagged rocks or drowned in the torrent, but the warriors, in four teams led by Sheppard, Ronon, Teyla, and Lorne, still had their work cut out to find and dispatch all the rest. The old dwarves insisted on fighting, despite Woolsey's protests, wielding broadswords almost as long as Ronon's with bloodthirsty glee. The hobbits' role was to make sure all drowned orcs and goblins were well and truly dead, and dispose of the carcasses down a sulfurous cleft in the rocks where lava gleamed far below. Nasty work, but necessary.

Rodney tried to focus on the grueling, messy task at hand, but he worried about the others out there, grappling with the last few orcs. Chuck had already bandaged up cuts on three of the dwarves, and Lorne had a bruised shoulder where a rockfall had clipped him.

One by one the teams trudged back to their base near the control center, but Sheppard, who was teamed with Grackhorn and the old wizened dwarf, Nidderond, had still not appeared.

"I wish we had the damn radios," Rodney said to Radek.

"Unlikely they would work down here," Radek said. He patted Rodney on the shoulder. "They will be back soon, my friend."

Finally, just as Teyla was about to mount a search party, Grackhorn appeared, pounding along on stubby legs. "Need...help," he gasped. "...thing killed Nidderond with...one hand—it's got the wizard trapped...an' he's all used up, nigh on dropping."

"One hand?" puffed Rodney as they ran, torches flickering. Dread chilled the pit of his stomach and several things that had been niggling at him slotted into place.

"Aye," gasped Grackhorn, leaping over some fallen rocks. "One hand on old Nidders' chest an' in no time he was a dried-out husk. He was in his prime...'ad a century left, at least!"

"Sheppard say...what it was?" panted Rodney.

"Called it a Wraith, but it weren't like no specter that I ever saw...far too solid and a bloody great longsword...Looked more like an elf gone bad, to me."

 _Huh—now there was a theory_ , thought Rodney, but they rounded a corner and were suddenly there at the scene, skidding to a halt behind Ronon and Teyla.

Ronon growled helplessly, and Rodney saw that Sheppard was pinned by the Wraith whose feeding hand was poised where the robe had been torn away. Sheppard's chest hair had some gray in it, but his face looked much the same, so probably it was natural. _I should know that about him_ , Rodney thought, anguished. _I should know his body almost better than my own._ They'd been so stupid, wasted so much time. Rodney drew himself up—if they got Sheppard out of this there'd be no more pissing about; he'd make a move.

Sheppard's eyes were wild and red-rimmed, glaring up at the Wraith, but knowing him, that was because he hadn't been able to save the dwarf, Nidderond, and was blaming himself, as usual.

"Come no closer or I will drain him dry," snarled the Wraith.

"What do you want?" asked Teyla coldly, a sword in each hand. They glowed with blue fire, as did Sheppard's, lying uselessly well beyond his reach.

"Safe passage out of here," said the Wraith, "for me and my hostage." He bared his teeth in a feral grin.

"I do not think your hostage would survive long once we released you," said Teyla. "This is a bad bargain."

"I don't bargain with cattle," the Wraith sneered.

"Wraith in a _Lord of the Rings_ spin-off?" murmured Radek in Rodney's ear. "Would Jeannie—?"

"No," said Rodney flatly. "She hates them, and she wouldn't write a Wraith into anything she was sending to cheer me up." Radek raised an eyebrow. "Yes, yes, I know this VE hasn't been a walk in the park, but it _has_ been distracting, I'll give her that."

"Then, what?" whispered Radek.

Rodney stepped forward. "I'm pulling the plug. Pity about the ZPM, but I can't watch this happen again." He turned to the dwarves. "It's been, well, not exactly _real_ , but nice to have met you. Only way we can get rid of that thing is by...magic. Anyway, we've got to go, but we'll try to keep in touch." He turned back and caught Sheppard's gaze, then he said the codeword they'd agreed would knock them out of the VE. "Doranda."

Nothing happened. The Wraith remained poised, the dwarves frowned in unison. Radek cursed in Czech.

"Shit," said Rodney. "I was afraid of that. Too many Pegasus details creeping in. The inn's name at Overwater was most likely a Jeannie thing, and the ZPM quest, but not the orcs that looked like drones, or this actual goddam Wraith. Jeannie wouldn't do that, it's not her–"

"The ancient VE pods," said Radek, snapping his fingers.

"Yes," said Rodney, frowning. "Your girlfriend doesn't want to stop playing, Sheppard. She's hijacked the script."

"Atlantis?" grated Sheppard. The Wraith's left hand tightened around his throat in warning and the claws of its feeding hand broke the skin of his chest, drops of blood welling up. Sheppard made a choked noise.

"Make the system release us, Colonel!" yelled Rodney. "You're the only one with a strong enough gene to force-close the program. Do it now!"

The Wraith's hand slammed down on Sheppard's chest and his eyes fell shut, then there was a sudden disorienting shift and their pods were ejecting, all eight sliding out from their slots. No more dwarves, or Wraith, or orcs, just the smooth greenish walls of the Atlantis VE suite.

Rodney scrambled out and across to the next bed where John lay, eyes shut. He felt for John's pulse, then gave up and just slapped him.

"Ow," said John plaintively, opening his eyes and glaring up. "What brought that on?"

"You stupid goddam bastard," said Rodney, and kissed him.

~~~oo0oo~~~

**Epilogue:**

They'd traded blow-jobs an hour back and were settled on Rodney's bed in their oldest, most comfortable sweats, sharing popcorn and watching _The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey_ while making out, slowly working up to round two. Rodney'd wanted to compare the dwarf details with Jeannie's VE spin-off: he'd been favorably impressed.

"You said she'd write in a way for me to fly," complained John, watching Bilbo and the dwarves carried aloft by giant eagles. He pointed at the screen. "That'd be cool. Can we do that next time? You can reprogram the script, yeah? Maybe have less time underground, though I'd like to see how the dwarves are doing." He glanced across at Rodney. "We _can_ go back in again, right? Radek said it was just a programing glitch, not some _Terminator_ thing with the city going rogue. Oh, and by the way," he smirked, "Atlantis is _not_ my girlfriend. We're just very good friends."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "No, as I keep repeating _ad nauseum_ , the city's not sentient. That was just me exaggerating in the heat of the moment. Giant eagles, Jesus. And I suppose you'll want me to ride one as well, even though I have no head for heights." John did the puppy-dog eyes and Rodney caved. "Yes, well, maybe once I've fixed those fail-safes so the VE subroutines don't get carried away with embellishments like last time. Plus we still haven't gotten the ZPM, and I'd like the dwarves to have it if we can find it. Yorrigan'd wet himself to have all that power."

"Hell, yeah," agreed John. "Who knows what they'd be able to build, given what they've done with just chisels and magic."

"You don't think it'd go to their heads?" Rodney asked, setting the popcorn bowl aside and rolling over to lick behind John's ear. Salt and butter and John, yum.

John shivered and arched his neck. "Nah, they're good guys. Be nice for Ronon to stay in touch with them. They were good for him."

Rodney hummed his agreement and rolled them so he was straddling John, pinning his hands to the pillow above his head. John grinned up at him and Rodney knew he'd never be any more relaxed than this: he couldn't put it off any longer. Part of him was sure John would bolt, so he stole a quick kiss, then pulled back before John's lips could derail his plans. "Don't think I'm not onto you," he said, smiling down fondly. "You think I don't know you're a wizard here as well, not just in the VE?"

John stilled underneath him, face going bland and shuttered. "Uh, reckon you might have had a little too much fantasy cinema, McKay," he said, eyes flicking across Rodney's face and away.

"Yeah, nice try, but I _know_ , John. You hide it behind your much-vaunted ATA gene, but I've seen how you slip a little magic in here and there to save the day and get us out of a tight spot. I may be many things, but I'm not an idiot."

"Never said you were." John was tight-lipped and shifty-eyed, but he wasn't trying to get away. Rodney let go of his wrists and shifted back a little. John brought his arms down and began fiddling with the bedclothes.

"I guess it's like with the ATA," Rodney continued. "Not that they're linked, as far as we can tell—well, Carson didn't think so, anyway. But every now and then someone like you crops up—a throwback to the old Middle-Earth bloodlines with an extra dose of that magical mojo. It doesn't seem quite fair that you got that _and_ the supercharged ATA gene."

"Carson knows?" John looked stunned.

"Yeah. He's got a few wizard genes too, and a touch of hobbit." Rodney shrugged. "Might be his Celtic forebears."

"He never said anything. How long have you...?"

"Suspected? A few years. But you're good at shutting down conversations you don't want to have, and Carson thought you'd freak out if we raised it. I should have said something, but...well. There are a lot of things we should have talked about."

"It wasn't easy," John said quietly, looking away. "I didn't know what the fuck was going on for years after it started, and I never had any real training." He grimaced. "When I discovered the Harry Potter books you know what I felt? Envious and pissed off. I'd have given anything to go to school somewhere like that, and I tried to find out if it was real for ages, but it was just fiction. If I hadn't been a solitary kid I guess someone might have found me out, but I hid out on our estate and taught myself spells from TV and the movies. Might seem like Disney crap to you, but it helps me channel it."

"Yeah, I figured that out – sorry, I shouldn't have teased you." Rodney reached for John's right hand and threaded their fingers together. "Look, you're not the only one with a few secrets." He took a deep breath. "Me, I didn't get the short stature, just the goddam furry feet. I can't tell you what a pain in the ass it is having to shave them so's to pass."

John stared up at him. "You're a–?"

"Yes – Jeannie and I, we both got the genes. You wizardy types tend to be loners and travel around more, but hobbits like villages—families, tribes, that sort of thing. Jeannie's more typical in that respect than I am, but being here, being part of the expedition and especially the team...you can't know what that's meant to me."

John was relaxed now, smiling up at him. "Jeez, Rodney, so we were both..."

"Idiots, yes," said Rodney ruefully.

John put his hands around Rodney's waist. "A hobbit, huh. Yeah, I can see it in you. You're wrong, you know, you got a lot more in the genetic lottery than just furry feet." He pulled Rodney down and kissed him, whispering against his mouth. "There's also your habit of saving the day." He poked Rodney in his admittedly slightly padded midsection. "Not to mention the greediness. That hypoglycemia crap's just an excuse for second breakfast and elevenses."

Rodney kissed him in retaliation.

"Hey," John murmured a while later. "You don't have to shave your feet for me, y'know. I like 'em furry."

"Hah! I totally knew you had a foot fetish!" said Rodney.

~~~oo0oo~~~

the end

 


End file.
